“I myself, as a person, have been influenced by many writers and many things, and my writing has felt the impact of the writing of many writers, some relatively unknown and unimportant, some downright bad. But probably the greatest influence of them all when an influence is most effective — when the man being influenced is nowhere near being solid in his own right — has been the influence of the great tall man with the white beard, the lively eyes, the swift wit and the impish chuckle.”(…)

“When, at the age of eighteen, I was the manager of the Postal Telegraph office at 21 Taylor Street in San Francisco, I remember having been asked by the clerk there, a man named Clifford, who the hell I thought I was. And I remember replying very simply and earnestly somewhat as follows: If you have ever heard of George Bernard Shaw, if you have ever read his plays or prefaces, you will know what I mean when I tell you that I am that man by another name.Who is he? I remember the clerk asking.George Bernard Shaw, I replied, is the tonic of the Christian peoples of the world. He is health, wisdom, and comedy, and that's what I am too.How do you figure? The clerk said.Don't bother me, I said. I'm the night manager of this office and when I tell you something it's final.”

“Looking out of the club window into Shaftesbury Avenue--hers was an economical club, but convenient for Hampstead, where she lived, and for Shoolbred's, where she shopped--Mrs. Wilkins, having stood there some time very drearily, her mind's eye on the Mediterranean in April, and the wisteria, and the enviable opportunities of the rich, while her bodily eye watched the really extremely horrible sooty rain falling steadily on the hurrying umbrellas and splashing omnibuses, suddenly wondered whether perhaps this was not the rainy day Mellersh--Mellersh was Mr. Wilkins--had so often encouraged her to prepare for, and whether to get out of such a climate and into the small mediaeval castle wasn't perhaps what Providence had all along intended her to do with her savings. Part of her savings, of course; perhaps quite a small part. The castle, being mediaeval, might also be dilapidated, and dilapidations were surely cheap. She wouldn't in the least mind a few of them, because you didn't pay for dilapidations which were already there, on the contrary--by reducing the price you had to pay they really paid you. But what nonsense to think of it . . .She turned away from the window with the same gesture of mingled irritation and resignation with which she had laid down The Times, and crossed the room towards the door with the intention of getting her mackintosh and umbrella and fighting her way into one of the overcrowded omnibuses and going to Shoolbred's on her way home and buying some soles for Mellersh's dinner--Mellersh was difficult with fish and liked only soles, except salmon--when she beheld Mrs. Arbuthnot, a woman she knew by sight as also living in Hampstead and belonging to the club, sitting at the table in the middle of the room on which the newspapers and magazines were kept, absorbed, in her turn, in the first page of The Times.Mrs. Wilkins had never yet spoken to Mrs. Arbuthnot, who belonged to one of the various church sets, and who analysed, classified, divided and registered the poor; whereas she and Mellersh, when they did go out, went to the parties of impressionist painters, of whom in Hampstead there were many. Mellersh had a sister who had married one of them and lived up on the Heath, and because of this alliance Mrs. Wilkins was drawn into a circle which was highly unnatural to her, and she had learned to dread pictures. She had to say things about them, and she didn't know what to say. She used to murmur, "marvelous," and feel that it was not enough. But nobody minded. Nobody listened. Nobody took any notice of Mrs. Wilkins. She was the kind of person who is not noticed at parties. Her clothes, infested by thrift, made her practically invisible; her face was non-arresting; her conversation was reluctant; she was shy. And if one's clothes and face and conversation are all negligible, thought Mrs. Wilkins, who recognized her disabilities, what, at parties, is there left of one?”

« 1. What made you first decide to venture out into the poetry book publishing game? Our founding editor, William Packard, had always spoken of an NYQ Books and his wish to make that happen. Shortly after his death we found several proposals that he had written over the years and we knew books were in the original charter, so it was always something in the back of my mind as well. With the onset of one off printing and the subsequent increased quality of that industry, it became viable to begin thinking about setting up an imprint. We bounced around several ideas for a couple of years and then when the 40th anniversary came around in 2009, it seemed like the perfect time to do something like this and a fitting gesture to both the magazine as well as Bill. So beginning in the first weeks of January of 2009 I set about releasing the older ideas we had bounced around and just made the decision to go full steam ahead with a non-profit model. Just to do it. By June of 2009 we released our first book.I would like to add that in addition to the nostalgic value, I think having a press is important because it allows you to provide another venue to the poets, and to publish more work of those poets than we ever could in a hundred issues of the magazine. There has always been at times those submission packages where you read it and want to publish the entire packet, and everything else you can get your hands on by that person. Now we can do that.“